


How Sam ruins the day

by antrazi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: kamikazeremix, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:28:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antrazi/pseuds/antrazi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean enjoyed the day. Only Sam he could have done without.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Sam ruins the day

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hoover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/499145) by [theladyscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theladyscribe/pseuds/theladyscribe). 



> Written for kamikazeremix

This day is great. Good food, good weather, no injuries on both Sam and me and some time to enjoy between hunts.

It's rare that we can really just enjoy the day and relax. And when we can, well, Sam and I have different interests. For him it's a twelve hour session in the library or archive for fun, for me it's a bar, women or a Dr Sexy marathon.

But some days even we Winchesters have a bit of luck.

We don't do this often enough, just sitting around for a spell.

The waitress comes back with our food. I smile widely at her and she blushes. On her way back she looks back at me, she blushes again, but her hips sashay ~~s~~ invitingly. I would so totally hit that. And I know she would let me.

Of course Sam doesn't even acknowledge this fine female specimen. Seeing his total lack of reaction, I sometimes wonder where I went wrong with him... 

God, I'm hungry. It's been ages since our last meal. At least four hours.

I focus on my food.

Everything looks really great. The strawberries are fresh and plump, the whipped cream a generous helping and the eggs are perfect, the white completely stocked and crispy at the borders, the yolk warm, but still running lazily on the plate once I nick it with the fork.

The strawberries are exactly as good as they look and with some of the cream... a different flavor. The whipped cream has a different aroma to it. What is that? Basil?  
I didn't read that on the menu, but it fits well in combination with the sweet fruit.

Most likely somebody saw too much Food Network and got creative.

Still, strange considering we are at a Cracker Barrel.

I push a strawberry in the yolk and try it together with the whipped cream. The herb isn't really strong enough against the hearty egg taste. Still good.

A bit of bacon, a bit of the pancakes, the syrup runs down on the biscuits and gravy.

I go methodically through half of the pancakes, pushing the bits though the gravy and syrup mixture.

Oh yeah, my milk.

I look over to Sam, his chicken and dumplings don't look bad as well.

Why then did he stop eating? Sammy has his bitchface on. Is something wrong?

“What?”

I hate it when Sam just stares at me without saying what his damn problem is.

“How do you do it, Dean? How can you stand to eat all that at once?”

This is the question? Really? Sam knows I enjoy eating, I never even tried to hide that.

“Dude, that’s disgusting. People are staring.”

I look around. OK, so there are a few people staring at me. And not the nice way I get from women either. A cute little girl is watching me slack-jawed.

I grin and send her a little wave and she giggles and goes back to her own plate.

“So? Let ‘em stare.”

I never understood his problem with things like that. And I don't really understand why they are staring, I'm not the only one here with a big serving. That guy there has at least as much as me.

Not that it even matters. We will never see even one of these people again, we don't know them. Why should I be concerned with the fact that they want to stare at me. Why should I care?

“Can you, at least, eat a little more slowly, Dean? It’s not like we have to be somewhere by dark.”

Okay, this is an argument. We have time, no need to rush this. We haven't been in a Cracker Barrel for a while. At least the last few days there have only been greasy spoons and fast food joints. It's surprising that Sam hasn't demanded one of his salads, yet.

I go back to eating, slower than before. The biscuits could be better, but with the gravy it's all right.

Sam goes back to his chicken, then comes the inevitable sigh. Of course, this is Sam. He always finds something to sigh and bitch about.

“What? Dude, I slowed down, okay?”

And there is the second part I hate, Sam tiredly shaking his head as if he had the fucking world on his shoulders. We are between hunts, dammit.

“It’s not that.”

Great. Monosyllabic. What twisted his panties in a bunch now?

“Then what?”

“How do you do it, Dean? How can you stand to eat all that at once?”

A hand waves above my plate.

That again? You should have realized years ago that I enjoy eating, Einstein. Don't tell me you need till now to see it. Full ride to Stanford? Please.

“Whaddaya mean, Sammy? I’m a growing boy.” I grin at my brother.

“No, Dean. I mean, how can you stand to have it all mixed together like that? It’s gross.”

Gross? Dude, we have different definitions of gross, that's for sure.

“It’s all going to the same place, so what does it matter?”

Does he think he has four stomachs like a cow?

“But it’s gross. That stuff doesn’t even go together.”

Who said that this doesn't go together? I like it. And it's not as if Sam himself doesn't like combinations that shouldn't be eaten together. Peanut butter and banana sandwiches come directly to my mind. Let's not even get started on his salads. Sam rates everything as a salad as long as there are a few green leaves in it.

“Just like coffee shouldn’t be tainted with sugar and cream and caramel and chocolate, Latte Crappucino Boy,”

I shudder just at the thought. Coffee, black. Is that really so hard?

“Hey, I like that stuff!”

Hm, I had the same argument. Don't tell me it is different just because now it's about your tastes and not mine.

“And I like my pancakes with my eggs.”

And bacon. And strawberries, cream, biscuits and gravy. Come to think of it, eggs fit with practically everything.

“Whatever. It’s still gross.”

“Whatever, Crappucino Boy.”


End file.
